These Letters to You
by SalvaVeritate
Summary: Please hold the applause. I know you’re not going to be surprised if you ever found a letter from me again, because you and I both know that the reason why you sent that letter was because you missed me.
1. Chapter 1

This is the second part of In Absentia, so you might want to read that first for this to make sense. I hope I still get this right. Here goes--

--

_The first time I saw you,_

_You were chasing down_

_A cyclone_

_All alone in the field_

_With rail yards and clovers_

_I kept rolling on and never thought_

_You'd wind up chasing me._

-Getaway Car by Audioslave

_  
_

_The following letter was found in Kathryn Merteuil's mailbox somewhere in the south of France:_

My dearest, dearest not so departed sister,

Please hold the applause. I know you're not going to be surprised if you ever found a letter from me again, because you and I both know that the reason why you sent that letter was because you missed me. Two years was a long time, you know. Admit it.

(Oh, please. Spare me the smirking, scoffing, and sarcastic remarks). You know you missed me.

It took a while to find you. Seven months, to be precise. I'm not going to discuss exactly how I managed this admirable feat because you really wouldn't care for details like that now, would you? Knowing you, (I'd like to think that I do in fact still know you even though it's been ages since we've actually spoken) you're probably expecting me showing up in person unannounced. In fact, here is what I think would have happened if I had been here instead of this letter:

You would enter your house, all perfect tanned legs and arms and mischievous but bored face framed by the particularly beautiful sunlight. Mmm. If you must know, they've sent photos of you but I haven't looked at them yet. Why, I don't exactly know. Maybe I'm still a little pissed at you for what you did. Maybe you've turned into a fat whore (as opposed to a thin whore, which is excusable since you were already one during our time together) and maybe if I found out how ugly you've become, this letter would lose its wit and affection. Or maybe I just don't want to look. I find that there is greater anticipation in keeping things a mystery.

And then, I would make myself very comfortable. You'd hear the television on and you'd frown. Tiptoe, those little painted toenails of yours such works of art. Quiet quiet annoyed yet scared Kathryn. Who is watching TV? Or if your boyfriend the predictably handsome yet exciting as charity work is free to come in and out of your house as he pleases, you would also get a little annoyed but maybe not so nervous. Either way, you'd still tiptoe and be quiet. Is your hair longer now, or did you cut it? I know you'll just tell me to grow a pair and stop acting like such a fag and just look at the damn 'stalker' photos (I'm sure you'll refer to them as that) already. I told you. I have my reasons for not looking.

By now your hands will be cold. You will think about calling security when you hear a deep voice that is obviously not your boyfriend's. It's a low, low chuckle. Too low for you to tell whose voice it is, but you are very sure that it isn't Mr. Boring's. So of course, you will just take a peek at first.

And then, then, then—

You glimpse that very familiar thatch of blond hair. The curls. And by now maybe you feel angry and yet secretly pleased that I am here. Same blue eyes, same everything. I will look at you, still with that faint smile that borders on a smirk. I imagine how my smile will look. I think it will be warm and fond, still so fond of you after all this time. Still so fond of you even if you put me through hell.

Words get stuck in your throat. So we just stare and stare and stare, absorbing each other's differences. I will turn the TV off and say:

"You fucking evil bitch."

I will say this in a way that shows I am merely stating a fact. I will stand up and put down my drink (I think it will be easy finding where you keep the alcohol). I wipe my hands.

You will maybe reply with a smile, once that shocked look disappears from your face. You want nothing to faze you, so you will try to hide the fact that I've surprised you and maybe cock your head. Maybe you will notice that I am wearing a silver ring on my left finger. Uh oh. If you do notice that, I think it will bother you but again, you won't let me know that it does so you just pass over it and instead make an offhanded comment like:

"How was your flight?"

Then maybe I will shrug. "So how'd you do it?" I will ask. I really am curious how you pulled it off. Bravo. Score one for the Manchester Prep's Leg Spreader of the Year.

But no matter how much you want to gloat, you won't tell me how. Why? Because I asked, and we both know how you like depriving me of things. What you will do instead, is look at my empty glass and you will ask me if I wanted a refill. Because you are still such a _good polite_ and _gracious_ hostess, right?

"Thanks," I will reply. I am after all born with manners. I will follow you to the kitchen or bar or whatever set up you have there. You will take out a glass for yourself. We won't talk. We only hear the ice tinkling and the liquid being poured out. When you give me my drink, I wait until you drink yours first.

Well, I do know you're capable of a lot of things. Who knows, there might be some sort of chemical in that bottle or something.

You know what I am thinking and you just roll your pretty green eyes. Then you'll sigh, "Sebastian," my name. You will say my name before you drink it. You fix your eyes on mine as you drain the glass.

Silence again. I drink, too.

Finally, the curiosity will get the better of you. It will suffocate you, and you can't help but glance at my ring again. It isn't a Valmont heirloom or anything like that. And it _is_ worn on a very suspicious finger.

"Who's the unlucky Mrs. Valmont and how long before you dipped that fickle dick of yours into another perky breasted whore?" You sneer.

Then it is my turn to sigh. "Kathryn, some people do change, you know."

"Right."

"It's true. I have a kid now."

Then your eyes will widen. Didn't see that one coming, too? _I bet._

"I don't suppose you've turned into one of those father who keep photos of the family in your wallet." You laugh, mocking me. You refill your glass again. More this time. You also drink it faster.

"No," I reply. But then I take out my Blackberry and press a few buttons and I show you—

A little boy, just a month old. Alexander Valmont.

By now you'll just be incapable of words. Really. Because this version of me, you weren't prepared for.

"What are you doing here?" You ask. Your voice is tired now. No more mocking, no more joking.

"Isn't it obvious?" I reply. "To see you, of course. I had to make sure you really weren't dead."

"Well, now you've seen me." You will point to the door. "Now go."

"That's it?" I ask. "That's all there is? No epic battle, no clashing of swords?"

"What do you want?"

"I want to end this."

Your eyes cloud over. "It's over. There's nothing to end."

"Nothing?"

"Yes." You reply. "Have a happy life. Goodbye."

Then I will stand up.

"Hey, Kathryn?" I will look at you.

"What?" You reply. Your voice sounds kind of soft. Defeated? Hurt, that I had replaced you already?

Well, you are technically dead. Even though I did technically love you. One can't simply expect me of all people to wait forever, you do know that, right? Darling, I'm certain you would've been a hot fuck but really. Don't think too highly of yourself. I don't think you're worth the wait.

"Things change." I say. Or I might tell you the other stuff, too. About you not being worth the wait. Will it be painful to hear? I don't know. I don't know you that well. Of course, you're not exactly Ms. Feelings, are you?

So you will just swallow everything you really want to say and instead come out with:

"Fuck you, Sebastian. Get the fuck out of my house."

"All-righty." My voice will sound too _chipper_.

But then again,

maybe if you let me.

I'll kiss you.

Before I go.

The end.

That's how it goes.

Bye, Kathryn.

Sebastian

PS. The entire bullshit about me being married and having a kid is something to fuck with your head. I am now enjoying the thought of your initial discomfort and dismay, but not as much as I'm enjoying the anger you must be feeling right now knowing that I just screwed you over. Moron. I can't believe you fell for that. How gullible are you these days, you deceiving whore?

PPS. You still owe me the _fuck of my life. _I still intend to collect on my winnings. I hope you're still very flexible._  
_

* * *

A/N: I might have said I was going to post this after I finished DC. I've gotten requests to write a sequel for In Absentia. It did seem to be like more of a cliffhanger though, yes? I'll keep this one very short. 


	2. Chapter 2

_Is there anybody going to listen to my story_

_All about the girl who came to stay?_

_She's the kind of girl you want so much_

_It makes you sorry_

_Still you don't regret a single day._

-Girl by The Beatles

_  
_

_The following letter was found on Sebastian Valmont's desk a week later—_

To my _delightful_ and _charming_ S,

Only you would name your fictional son after a gay conqueror. It does make me wonder whether or not you've found solace in Blaine's arms after the _tragedy_ of my death. A little pillow kissing perhaps?

Do you think your description of my supposed reaction was accurate? Are you so sure that I would have been _hurt_ because of your claim that I am simply not worth the wait? If that were so, Sebastian, why would you still want to fuck me? Doesn't that contradict your statement?

Nevertheless, I can't deny the fact that I enjoyed it when you decided to take a different route. You were right. I had been expecting you to come here, guns blazing, pretty pouty mouth full of profanities and all boo hoo Kathryn how could you do this to me? Oh, don't try to deny it. I watched my funeral, remember? I saw the tears. For about ten seconds, I was simply moved. In that span of time I was fonder of you than I had ever been. I was glad to see genuine mourning. You were the only one who really cried. 

But none of that, none of the pity party. What's there to pity? I am very much alive and well. I had never liked my life in New York anyway. I had never liked being Kathryn _Merteuil_. No, that was my mother's name. If you've done your research right, you will find that I am now using my father's name. After all, I couldn't go on using a dead girl's name, now could I? Sometimes, it still feels odd using it whenever I sign something. Or for university, even. Yes, I am still studying. I had been Kathryn Merteuil for so long that sometimes it feels like I can never really lose that part of me. I am living near my father, for yes, I do have one. I've never told you about him because while I am quite the conversationalist, I never tell people the things that do matter to me. Forgive me for being so sentimental; it's just that he has been such a tremendous help to me ever since I moved here. What father wouldn't help his daughter fake her own death in order to escape the stigma of a social ruination?

And please don't be a pervert and attempt to make a lame joke about that. I would ask you to respect my father, thank you very much. Even though we go through great lengths to fuck with each other, this is one line I would ask you not to cross. Don't we all have lines at some point? 

Regarding your question, yes I do wear my hair longer than when you last saw me. I am curious as to why you refuse to look at the stalker photos (yes I do in fact consider them to be stalker photos, just like you said I would). Or maybe you actually look at them. Maybe you even jerk off to them once in a while, such is your obsession with me.

Sorry if I'm writing in fragments like this. I'm actually very busy these days. I'm taking time off from school to go traveling with a friend. Yes. A male friend. A _boyfriend_. While he is predictably handsome, he isn't as boring as you might think. You forget that I am now out of Mother's grasp, there are no standards to live up to, no people to please, other than myself. His name is Anton. He reminds me of you, only better. He can be an asshole (this is the part where he reminds me of you), but he does in fact make me quite happy and content (this is the part where he doesn't remind of you). We're going to be traveling all over Europe. Perhaps if you're a very nice boy I will still write to you.

Let's talk about what happened. About my death. About you during my death. I did in fact watch you for the first few months, as you may very well recall. Why? It isn't the fact that I'm _obsessed_ with you. It was more of a curiosity, really. You know how they say that when you've lost something, there's no point in holding yourself back? And you didn't, did you? While I was amused at how pathetic you've become, it was during that time that I missed you very much. Yes. I admit it. How could I not? We've come a long way, haven't we? How could I not miss my Sebastian, my kinky handsome brother? Of course you cried. Of course you grieved. As I would have if you had died.

I won't apologize for what I had done. It remains to be a masterpiece. And please don't try and make this all about you. I didn't do it because of you. I suppose a part of me had been unhappy for the longest time. My life up until that point was about pleasing my mother. Do you think I _enjoyed_ dating morons like Court Reynolds? Everything was just so goddamn stifling that there were times when I felt like screaming. Just one more fucking charity event to organize, just one more eligible bachelor to date, to fuck, to impress, and I would have killed somebody.

You were the only one who made things okay. You were there and then you weren't. And it was over, just like that. In the rare times when I'm feeling nostalgic, I wonder what happened that made you do what you did. Sometimes I think you felt the same way I did, after all, I do assume that sometimes an actual human being exists somewhere beneath that sexually active exterior. Were you suffocated, too? Did I suffocate you? Did we love each other too much?

Maybe.

Or not. Who knows at this point?

I'm leaving in a week. By the time you get this, I don't know where I'll be. I'm better off where I am now. I think we had to have a falling out, otherwise, I would have never left. It's funny how life goes, isn't it?

Thank you for writing, Sebastian. The next time you whack off to my picture, please have the courtesy to wipe your disgusting semen off my face. It's the only way you're going to get the _fuck of your life_. The deal has expired.

K

* * *

Hurrah. I'm glad this is still working out. 

B: More, please indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

_Do you hear me?  
Do you hear me?  
'cause I need to  
just to reach you  
Can you hear me?  
coming clearly  
Am I hollow  
Just an echo_

-Echo by Vertical Horizon

Today is Kathryn Merteuil's death anniversary.

Blaine Tuttle is aware of this. So he gets up earlier than he usually does, yawns, and stretches. His torso is creased from being pressed against pillows and blankets. He rubs his eyes, squinting at the clock. It is nine in the morning on a Sunday. Usually he gets up past noon. But it's all right, he thinks as he heads to the bathroom. It's all right because the bitch he was so fond of might feel a little lonely, being all alone out there.  
Half an hour later he is outside, breathing in cigarette smoke and the not-so-fresh air. He gets into the car and drives, although his thoughts lie elsewhere. This is a trip he doesn't like making, but he makes it anyway. Because it's all right. Because he knows she would want him to visit.

On his way to the cemetery, he thinks and mulls and wonders. Ordinary thoughts like the orders he is supposed to attend to from his clients or whether or not such and such have paid are momentarily stored. He thinks about his friend and her sad ending. He thinks about what she looked like when she left for rehab, for that place that never allowed any visitors. Blaine remembers her dull eyes. He remembers how she looked at him, how she never said goodbye.

—Sad sad sad.

He arrives there. His feet crunches against the grass. Green like his princess's eyes, that girl he misses so much.

Blaine Tuttle feels—

He places the flowers on the grave. Then a cigarette, because hell, he knows she could use a smoke. And a bath. Maybe a couple of breath mints.

_ Why don't you try being dead, you asshole? _He can hear her snotty reply in his head and he laughs.

Hey princess, he says. Happy death day.

The wind blows.

He lights a cigarette.

He is all alone in the cemetery with her.

Until he isn't.

He sees someone standing there watching him. A woman with large sunglasses.

Petite.

Brown, brown hair. Long. Soft.

Pursed mouth.

His blood becomes very cold. He remembers suddenly how

It had been a _closed casket._

Fuck, he gasps. He walks quickly, approaching her. She turns, and there is that familiar walk. Body straight, shoulders back.

Wait,

She gets into a car.

Why can't he run fast enough?

Wait,

He sprints. The woman is looking at him through the window.

Wait,

She presses her fingers against the glass.

And smirks.

That annoying, lovely smirk.

And then she is gone.

Blaine wonders if he has lost his mind. Or if he has been taking too much of what he's selling. Either way, he feels an inexplicable lightness.

He smiles, and then that smile blooms into a chuckle.

Today is Kathryn Merteuil's death anniversary.

Kathryn (formerly Merteuil) is highly aware of this. She feels a little somber and at the same time amused. It is very different now, being here, she thinks.

Where to, Ms.—? The driver asks as they drive out of the cemetery.

It doesn't take long for her to answer. She tells him the address from memory. Visiting a _historical landmark_ is a given.

She checks her phone for messages. One from Anton. She smiles when she hears his voice, warm and buttery and deep.

I'll see you soon, he says. I miss you already.

Click.

She arrives at the townhouse and instructs the driver to wait for her. It is easy talking to the doorman. After all, doesn't she look like a Valmont, a distant cousin who is visiting?

Where is Mr. Valmont anyway?

He's out of the country. The doorman replies.

And she laughs and laughs, imagining his face when he finds out where she has been. In reality, she loves that he has missed her again. She wants him to miss her want her desire her so he will go crazy. And then she will win. She will win when she hears him plead Kathryn god please. Turning her into Kathryn-god.

She enters. The maids don't recognize her. She doesn't recognize them. Isn't Kathryn dead, after all?

She enters his bedroom first. That familiar Sebastian-smell makes her feel comfortable. She will never tell anyone this, but she wishes she can take that Sebastian-smell and put it in a bottle like a perfume. So when she is feeling unlike herself, she can take that bottle, lift the lid, and breathe the comfort in. His room is a little different now, she muses. Books and papers and photographs scattered everywhere. Since when has he been so messy?

But the bed, that wonderful bed, the place of many memories, that remains the same. The sheets are the same. Green. Plain. On the bed:

A photograph of her. With him.

How sweet, how sentimental. She thinks. She picks up the picture and sees herself reflected on the glass.

And then she goes to her room. She doesn't know what to feel, being back in her old room. How strange it is, she thinks. Everything is exactly the same. Everything is still neat. Her clothes are still in her closet. She rummages through her drawers. Make up, lotion, perfume, little trinkets, jewelries from old boyfriends. Everything is there.

On to the bed. Of course, the bed. She takes of her heels, rubbing her feet. They really hurt, you know.

She lies down, pressing her cheek against the pillow. It is her pillow, her special pillow. Nothing else is like it, not even the one she has back in her new home.

She rubs her cheek against it.

And inhales.

Then frowns.

Warms her little questionable twisted heart.

Has somebody managed to put the Sebastian-smell in a bottle? Has somebody poured him all over her pillow?

Sebbie, poor handsome Sebbie. You sentimental asshole.

She gets up. Puts on her shoes. Leaves her room and goes back to his.

She suddenly feels so tired.

Maybe she will stay for a while.

She pulls out a familiar trinket and

Puts in on his pillow.

So he will _know_.

Today is Kathryn Merteuil's death anniversary.

Sebastian knows this. Only she isn't dead, so there is no point in being sad. He pays the taxi and steps out. He feels the delicious sensation of anticipation.

Only to have it die as soon as he finds out she is not home.

Where is she? He asks the maid. Isn't it easy to say that he is a distant cousin just visiting from New York? So of course she answers easily, because he smiles and charms and flirts with her a little.

But the maid shrugs. Sebastian has a bad feeling that she has gone traveling with Anton earlier than expected. She _would_ do something like that.

When the maid says that Mr. Anton is still here (and that he dropped by earlier to pick something up), he feels better.

Can I come in? He asks, but she shakes her head because even though he is very charming and all that, letting him in is another story. So he pretends to say okay, sure.

The maid is just a little older than he is. She could have been a model.

So he says this. You could be a model.

The maid blushes prettily, and his voice lowers, he pulls out all the stops.

I don't usually do this, he says, looking her with his arresting blue eyes. But I was wondering if…

So minutes later, he is inside her, fucking her, enjoying her screams of pleasure of more more more oh god. He is very amused that Kathryn will find out. If she will fire the poor maid, then so be it. Who cares?

He comes and then he goes down on her until she is quivering until she is so tired until her legs ache until she surrenders to sleep.

Then he leaves the maid's quarters and easily slips into her house. All white and pristine. No blue? He thinks, remembering her room. Maybe she never even liked her room that much.

He wastes no time and heads to her bedroom. That Kathryn-smell is there. He wishes he could keep it with him always.

There are no photos of him at all. He is a little miffed at this. He tries and rummages through her things, but he can't find any trace of him. Unbelievable, he thinks. _Unfair_.

He wonders where she is. Until he sees the legal pad on her desk near the phone. Scrawled there are details for a flight. To New York.

His heart races.

And then it hits him.

Of course, he says out loud. Of course of course of course.

He pulls out his cell phone and calls.

Kathryn jumps when she hears her private line in her old room ringing. She wonders who would call a dead girl.

But then she doesn't wonder.

Because there is really only one person who would do that.

Of course, she chuckles. Of course of course of course.

She welcomes the shrill ringing, drawn to it. It is noon now.

She picks up the phone and listens, just listens. She lies down; there is still that Sebastian-smell on her pillow.

It's still how you left it, isn't it? Comes his voice in her ear. Your room?

She doesn't reply.

Do you know where I am right now? He asks

She has a pretty good idea where. Now that she thinks about it. But she still doesn't talk.

Have you eaten? Persists darling Sebastian.

She shakes her head. On cue, her stomach growls. Does he hear it?

Kathryn, you know I'm all for mind fucking you but I can't really do that properly if you've starved to death. So just ask the maid to prepare you something to eat, okay? I think there's some salad, the kind you like, remember? The one with salmon and capers. Says her former brother.

All right, she says in her mind. Because it's fun fucking him over like this. So she stays quiet, leaving him uncertain.

I'm hanging up now. He says.

Just as she is about to take the phone away from her ear, she hears his voice.

Wait, he says.

She waits.

I have something urgent to tell you. He says.

What? Says her mind.

I fucked your maid so she'd let me in. He says, then he starts laughing hard she can imagine him looking so pleased with himself. Quite the animal in bed. I'm drinking your best wine by the way. I might have spilled some on your carpet. Oops. He laughs some more.

Asshole. She thinks, hanging up. She can still hear him laughing.

But she asks the maid for some salad please.

The hours pass considerably faster after that. And then she is gone.

They trade places.

Groggy and cranky from jet lag, Sebastian drops his bags. They land with a heavy thump. He reads his mail and removes his shoes.

Just as he sits on the bed, he notices something different.

On his pillow:

Kathryn's necklace. The one whose crucifix he had welded shut.

He stops reading his mail. He picks it up, rubbing the beads between his fingers.

On the other side of the world:

Kathryn is annoyed.

True enough, there is a stain on her white carpet. She has fired her slut maid. On her pillow, a hastily written note torn off her legal pad.

_Sooner or later I will want more._

Written in that horrible handwriting.

And she grins.


	4. Chapter 4

_ If I could open my arms,  
And span the length of the isle of Manhattan,  
I'd bring it to where you are,  
Making a lake of the East River and Hudson.  
And if I could open my mouth,  
Wide enough for a marching band to march out,  
They would make your name sing,  
And bend through alleys and bounce off other buildings.  
_  
-Marching Bands of Manhattan by Death Cab for Cutie

There is an unopened envelope on Kathryn's table.

The clock hands are being held back by insistent invisible hands. Hands tugging like children begging their mother not to leave. Her bags are packed everything is ready. A week since their amusing 'encounter'.

You're ready? Anton asks from outside and she's just there with a towel wrapped around her body her hair dripping wet staring at the white envelope with the disgusting handwriting. The water slides down her chest her back drip drip dripping still. The sunlight hurts her eyes. She looks around the room, at the spot where there used to be a stain. It's spotless now.

The phone rings and she jumps.

She picks it up just to stop that ringing that loud shrill ringing.

"Yes?"

It's really you, Sebastian replies. Then, more slowly, as though tasting each letter. It's really you.

She looks at the letter again, a letter undoubtedly full of sarcasm and wit and bittersweet fondness.

Listen to me, says Sebastian. Just listen.

She locks the door.

And listens.

You and I both know that it's me you want inside that house with you, he says. You and I both know it's me you want to travel all over fucking Europe with.

And listens.

Just say one more goddamn word, Kathryn. Sebastian's voice is raspy.

Fuck you, he continues after about ten seconds of silence. Fuck you for being so cruel. Fuck me for liking you, for liking this twisted shit we have going on. I'll prove it to you. I can, you know. I'll prove that it's just me, the love of your fucking life. Because you said it, remember? You fucking said it before, only you said you died. Well you didn't fucking die, did you? Not really.

Anton knocks and she jumps. Covering the mouthpiece, she tells him she'll need a few minutes to get ready. Then she kisses his cold lips.

I'll prove it, that I'm the only one who gets under your skin like this, all hot and bothered.

His voice lowers.

Because right now you're thinking about it, aren't you? About letting me win. Or maybe it's not about me winning. Maybe you're just thinking that I was the one who knocked earlier. That it was my mouth you kissed. Yeah, I know you probably kissed him. You kissed him because you were forcing me out of your head the way you're forcing him out of your room.

She feels very warm now.

The things I want to do to you, Sebastian says. So many, many, many things.

First, to look at you. Really, really look at you because I haven't really seen you for a while. I'll look at you and enjoy the sight of you breathing, enjoy the sight of you staring back at me. You have no idea how pleasurable that would feel, Kathryn. You've deprived me of that for years, and just looking at you again would be like recapturing something I've lost. I will take my time because it makes sense to take my time.

Then, I'll move closer. Until I hear you breathing. That close. So close. I'll run my fingers through your hair. Long, short, whatever the fuck it is. I don't care if you've shaved your fucking head and it'll prickle my skin. I'll still do it, and it'll still feel the same. Still soft.

Then, my thumbs will caress your cheekbones. And I will make you look at me. I will make you see the man I have become. I will make you see the effect of all this waiting, of all these games. The hunger in my eyes will be so apparent you will feel mildly alarmed by it. You wouldn't know whether it is my intention to punish you or to love you.

And you will like the uncertainty, I'm sure of that.

My real intention, however, will remain a mystery. Right now, for example. You don't know why I'm doing this, why I'm being so persistent. Whether I love you or hate you for making me think that I killed you, one thing remains constant.

That I want you. To fuck you, to kiss you, to shove my tongue in your mouth in your cunt and taste you in every way possible. I'd like that very much. To press you against the wall, against the mattress, to hear you gasp and pant and call me Sebbie, your delightful once-little Sebbie.

He stops talking. The back of her head hits the door with a dull thud. She rolls her head back, mouth half open, eyes on the ceiling. Staring.

Kathryn, he says. You remember that day when we were thirteen? Remember? We took our clothes off and we did things, only you wouldn't let me fuck you because you were still a virgin. Remember?

He starts breathing. Hard. And she blushes once she realizes once she imagines once she sees him so clearly and it's like he is pulling her to him, just the way he breathes the way the way he his throat makes a sort of strangled sound.

Where's your other hand, Sebbie? She wants to ask, but she doesn't say anything.

Remember? He asks through all that heavy breathing and she wants to laugh and call him a freak a pervert, she wants to gloat to mock him because he gave up first, he gave up and now she's gotten him she's reduced him to this hormonal masturbating man. And then it will be game over and she will have won.

You took my hand and placed it on your left breast, but I removed it and touched your face, remember? Continued Sebastian in all his heavy sighing, thinking about her and the memory of them.

She remembers.

Do it, his growls, you know you want to. Indulge in this little kink with me. A little preview of things to come. He laughs a little, gone is his sweet-talking, his nostalgia of that wonderful day together. Fuck oh god fuck. He pants, and she imagines him with his hand wrapped around his penis up and down squeezing as tightly as he is squeezing her heart with his voice.

Touch yourself for me, he says.

Before she knows it, she's on the floor, her hand has a life of its own. Like it belongs to him now and she touches the warmth grows the moisture increases the pleasure forces sounds out her mouth and for a while they don't talk they just communicate with sounds like they are meeting inside the telephone with the holes on the receiver for windows. They are trapped inside the phone, basking in the darkness, groaning writhing feverish with images of each other as thirteen year olds that day they first became enamored with each other and then the images of who they were as teenagers, and then who they were now.

I remember how you tasted how you looked at me, whispers Sebastian.

She breathes. Like it's him inside her and as much as possible she tries to stifle the moans because she doesn't want him to know that he's winning this little battle even though it's clear that he knows. He doesn't gloat. He carries her off somewhere with his words, an alternation of dirty phrases and gentle calls.

I'm close, he says, then his words are all jumbled up closecloseclose oh godKathryn.

And her fingers (which he controls) do something like he really is in control of them, some sort of little flick, little prod and she can't help it she bangs her head against the door again, harder this time, to somewhat hide the low guttural cry of pleasure that battles its way out of her.

Fuck, his voice shakes. Sebbie.

They are quiet for a while.

You know, Sebastian says. If we do something incredibly stupid like fall in love, this would be a hell of a way to tell our story.

Her bones still feel soft and she's still trying to grasp what happened.

Anton knocks again. Are you okay in there, sweetheart?

Um… yes. Be right out. Kathryn replies.

Meet me, Sebastian urges. I don't care where, as long as it's in the immediate future.

And then the tables turn. Because she hears the desperation the longing in his voice the way sharks smell blood.

Sebastian,

He seems shocked at the sound of her voice. But he quickly responds.  
What?

You're such a little shit,

You're such a little tease, he replies.

She laughs and he laughs and then they share another long silence.

I'm leaving, she says. I have to go get changed but I'm leaving after. For a while, you know that.

Yes, I know.

Okay, bye.

But when will I see you? His voice! She has to smile at the tone, the mixture of petulance with hopefulness, all attempting to be covered up by the usual arrogant Sebastian-tone.

Soon, she says. When we're both ready.

I'll call you, he promises. While you're off with the predictably handsome boyfriend.

Needy, are we?

Yes, well, he says gruffly. All games aside, I fucking miss you, you horny cunt. And I know you're not going to say you miss me back because of that pride of yours. However, feel free to say something that doesn't make any sense whatsoever like 'the sky is turning purple this Wednesday to confirm that a part of you fucking misses me too.

She blinks and thinks and says.

Quietly.

There's no need for lame nonsensical sentences, Sebastian.

You know I do.

But not as much as you think. She is quick to add before she hangs up.

But not before he says:

Liar.

Voicing out the subliminal parasite attached to her hasty addition.

* * *

A/N: Um thanks I guess, for not thinking it bites. I'm sorry, I know I owe at least two more chapters for DC. But I'm severely swamped these days, you've no idea. Anyway, that's pretty much it. Hope you guys at least enjoyed this one! And yes, they will be meeting soon.


	5. Chapter 5

_...--And a servant girl emerged, who knows why,_

_Her scarf loose, her hair temptingly arranged_

_..._

_And while brushing a trembling finger across_

_The velvety pink peach of her cheek,_

_Her little girl-hips affected a pout_

_And she leaned towards me, adjusting my plates_

_Just so; then, casually, angling for a kiss--_

_Said softly, "My cheek is so cold. Here, feel..."_

-Clever Girl, by Arthur Rimbaud

The unread letter was read by Kathryn (formerly Merteuil) during the first half hour of her flight. Of note is the nearly indecipherable handwriting. It is sloppier than usual:

Kathryn,

I was at the bookstore earlier and I saw a copy of Arthur Rimbaud's poetry. It reminded me of you. Youre my Clever Girl, aren't you? Youare you've always been you'll alwaysbe. Fuck I don'tknow what I'm sayingrightnow.I wont send this to youfucking hell youll think it's stupid whatthe fuck was in that drink? Idon't really care 'causeyou won't get this you won't readthis anyway I won'tsend you anything until I'm allgood and up and runningagain.

She just left I'm sorrysorry Kathryn sorry I fuckedher on your bed sorry I spilled wine andmaybe theblood wont wash off from yoursheets easily. Idon'tknow why Ididitwhy I fucked her on your bed I know it's _yours_but Iwant it to stop being _yours_and be justmine just a spare roomfor fucking.

I'mhappythat we're talking but sometimes it's too long it's taking too long don't you understand that sometimes I replace you that sometimes youdon't mean the same as you did beforebeforebefore EVERYTHING FUCKED US OVER? Sometimes I forget youeven though I enjoy your letters you're still _not here_.

Let me see you before I forgetyoubefore I forget us before the time comes when I won'tcare anymore. Youdon't understand how it feels good to be with her tofuck her to _laugh_ shemakes me laugh sohard sometimes I forget but justsometimes because when I wakeup Iremember Ijustremember and I checkmyphone for messages I ask if there are any lettersfor me.

Helpmeget you out of me.It's easy, isn't it? Ineed tobeinside you to stop wondering to stop thinkingto get YOU OUT OF MY SYSTEM.

If youre not gonnacomeback help me say bye Kathryn bye.

Im tired now so I'll sleep you wont get this I'll burn it I will I'll burn ityou can't read thisfuckingstupiddisgusting piece of shit.

Goodnight,Kathryn.

I missyou.

-S

* * *

A/N: Who's still interested in this story? Let me know. I'm still figuring out what to do with it.


	6. Chapter 6

_I wouldn't walk away from you_

_even if you asked me to._

_These auburn leaves must all turn brown_

_So tremble, we must all be found_

-Sake by Guillemots

--

The following postcard was left at the counter for Kathryn:

K,

I would like to think that you're surprised, but I know you're not.

S.

PS: The predictably handsome boyfriend isn't as bad as I thought. I advised him to get you the necklace instead of the bracelet. Do you like it?  
--

Instinctively, she touches her necklace. Her mouth parts. She looks around the hotel, frowning.

Ms.—, is there anything wrong? The concerned concierge inquires, watching her curiously.

She crumples the postcard. The view outside crumples in her hand.

Listen to me, she hisses. Tell him not to leave any more notes for me. I don't want to see him—

She stops talking. Her breath catches. There is someone behind her. She flinches at first, and then when she feels a familiar brush of lips against her temple, she relaxes. Fingers touch her shoulder, trailing down her arm. The hand covers hers and then takes the crumpled postcard.

Tell him yourself. Whispers the voice, nibbling her ear. Tell me yourself.

Stop it. She moves but he bites harder.

Don't. The voice continues, amused. He rubs the goosebumps on her arms, up and down, warming her suddenly too warm body.

Not here. She grits her teeth.

The concierge blushes and attends to someone else.

Yes, here. He inhales deeply, letting out a little sigh. Why not here?

He kisses her jaw. With their cheeks pressed together, he kisses the corner of her mouth.

She finally turns around, pushing him away.

He doesn't protest.

She doesn't move.

I told you, didn't I? He says softly. Sooner or later I'd want more.

Well, I don't. She answers stiffly, heart pounding at how _older_ he looked now.

He scoffs.

Stop believing that any of this can be controlled. You knew this would happen. He says the last part quietly.  
She pauses.

He hears her breathing.

The clock ticks.

They look at each other

And ticks.

He smiles.

And ticks.

Have a drink with me, Kathryn.

His words echoing in her head:

_You knew this would happen._

He walks away.

She hesitates

before following.

* * *

A/N: End? Yes I know I'm being unbelievably stingy with words. I apologize for those of you who are still reading anything of mine. Anyway. I'd like to end it here but I've already written a bit of dialogue so maybe I won't end it here but maybe I will who knows these days? Good night sleep tight don't let the monsters inside. (Belated) trick or treat, everybody.


End file.
